The boy-who-lived-to-be-mad
by jankenmor99
Summary: He was never meant to be sane, but perhaps he was meant to be precious?
1. Chapter 1

The boy-who-lived was mad.

It went on every newspaper, every conversation: The boy-who-lived-to-be-mad. Moreover, not just the angry kind either, the _I killed the Dursley's and they found me laughing at the scene_ kind. Nevertheless, he was protected from the police, for he was the boy-who-lived.

The boy-who-lived was pathetic.

Whimpering in the night, screaming his nightmares, never telling them that it was _Voldemort._ Despite how many times the headmaster visited, pleaded for him to say _something_. Something useful, something to use in this wretched war.

The boy-who-lived was useful.

But not in the way Dumbledore wished, rather in the way that the dark would use him –as they dragged him out of Saint mundus and into the Malfoy manor, the dark lord cackling at the irony of it all as the boy-who-lived watched wide-eyed, an uncertain smile upon his lips.

The last potter was doomed.

He watched bright-eyed as the killer of his godfather entered, insane already before the dark lord –killer of his parents- tortured her as a gift for him, giggling and blushing as if he was a pupil given a dress for prom.

He was just Harry now.

He was never meant to be a hero, nor a villain. Though perhaps he had always been meant to be precious, either as a son or as the dark lord's prize and pet. It hardly mattered though, what mattered was that he felt safe –he had no choice but to. 

The dark lord was master.

The resistance was weak as the dark lord already had the ministry in his firm grip, forgetting to give all his attention upon his prized pet –a mistake.

Harry had never been meant for sanity, and he didn't claim to own some as he stabbed the dark lord down –calling on the souls like him, forcing them to respond and come to _him._

They stayed in his head, murmuring how precious he was even as he stabbed the already dead corpse –just as normal as any other, though the noseless look did give it a creepy quality.

Dumbledore found Harry at the scene, the death eaters scattered as their lord was vanquished, Harry humming softly and smiling proudly at Dumbledore, whom offered a sad smile at the deranged boy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey y'all! Sorry for the long wait, as well as the long wait on basically every story I ever wrote. You can surely imagine why I do oneshot's by now. Because then you won't have to wait around, anyways this is what I came up with after i got sudden muse for this story -I'll be sure to add tags and such once this is posted!**

It was summer, a time which Harry spent all time dreading whilst his fellow students talked happily about the travels they would go on and _if_ they cried it only for the friends they would miss, not like Harry -whom knew about the horror which would be at 'home'.

He had to stop himself there, knowing that Dumbledore had done everything to stop it from becoming physical once again; he could only hope that the threats of the order would stop them whenever his uncle wanted to fulfil some of the threats he told, Harry was hit bad enough by the constant insults and jabs. Being told that you were useless constantly made one sensitive apparently.

The car finally arrived, stopping his thoughts from making him despair even more. Besides, he was more worried about his Uncle's beady eyes shifting, angry probably –and waiting until they were safely inside before he could start a parade. Something which he promptly did.

"What do you think you're doing, you bloody freak?!" Spit came from his mouth at the abnormally loud hiss, baring his teeth like a rabid dog. "Thinking we'll accept those threats, against my family! We are upper-class citizens! Respected and proud, in difference to _your kind!_ " He said it as if his kind was disgusting, taboo –something best left not talked about.

Harry supposed it was, at least in this household.

The punishment he got for threats was bleak compared to his childhood before Hogwarts, so he supposed it was worth it.

Still, he was sore and he guessed that at least _something_ had to be bruised, if not broken. He was set to working at once of course, so that he could earn his keep, which only made his injuries worse and harder to handle. He was given a hoodie to wear whilst tending the garden or doing anything that involved neighbours looking –despite the blazing heat, Harry longingly looked at the shirtless men, only to get whispers from the neighbours _again_.Luckily, Aunt Petunia gave him a tense warning instead of speaking to Uncle Vernon, whom would be sure to 'beat' the gayness out of him.

Therefore, when he was finally granted reprieve and told (rather rudely) to stay in his room so that they could go out without him he was more than happy to obey.

Until he started thinking of Sirius. In the few weeks he'd been here (time was hard to keep track of) he'd been kept busy, unable to think because of either the throbbing pain or the scorching sun.

Now the pain he felt was of a different kind then the sort uncle Vernon so enjoyed inflicting on him.

He tried to keep the thoughts at bay by writing letters, noting that his 'loving' relatives had never _not_ allowed him to do so. That and he was again afraid of his owl's safety, his Uncle Vernon had given her too many shifty looks –so he promptly decided that she was to send the letters and he would request them to take care of her.

Letters finished with simple wishes for more information and the health of his beloved pet (although you'd think she was his mother with the disapproving looks) he was left with his own thoughts again, replaying Sirius falling through the veil with an empty feeling.

He wondered how one could get such joy out of killing, Harry wondered if _he_ could. What would it feel like, to kill the Dursleys? Or Voldemort? Would he go around singing about their death, happy at a life lost?

He wondered, he mused –and wasn't it ironic that his sadness were stopped by the same thing which had grasped his Godfather away from him?

 _~I killed Sirius Black, I killed Sirius Black.~_

He wondered about how the blood would look, bright? Or dark? He thought that the amount of fat or lack of it would change the colour; didn't they say something of the like in Muggle School?

 _~I killed Sirius Black, do you hear that Potter? ~_

Would their organs feel squishy? Easy to squash, or would they be of sturdier stuff?

 _~You're weak, pathetic. ~_

Would they still call him freak, when death looked upon them?

 _~Join me, we could be great together~_

The slamming of the door, the loud stomping up the stairs made him pause in his musing, standing hesitantly in the middle of the room.

His uncle was heading to his room.

The locks made the fat man grunt with exhaustion, as well as breathe quite heavily –easily heard in the stillness as his Uncle struggled with the locks. Once the door was opened it was clear that he was drunk, although Harry wondered why Aunt Petunia hadn't cut him down –usually she did that.

 _Oh shit._

That was a muggle saying, a muggle saying he found himself agreeing with on a spiritual level. It wasn't purely a sentence, he found, it was an _emotion._ Which he was becoming unfortunately familiar with.

A punch sent him to the ground, black hair being the only thing seen as he curled up –his uncle now only able to send kicks to his back and knees, although that hurt enough that he let out whimpers which seemed to satisfy his drunk uncle. For once, he was grateful that it was only punches instead of words, he didn't think he'd stand being told how useless he was.

That was, until the screeching began. It didn't happen in slow motion, as some of those muggle movies portrayed, it happened rather fast actually. Harry was just peeking up too see his beloved pet attack her Master's abuser with her claws, only to have his uncle slam her into the wall with a sickening crunch. The bones were broken; she was dead before she hit the ground.

There was silence then, his uncle sensing that this may be a step too far –grunting out a low 'good riddance' before leaving his nephew alone to consider the blood splatter on both the wall and floor, tainting his beloved white owl.

She was truly a gruesome sight, yet Harry was numb too that fact as he caringly cradled to her chest –glad she hadn't felt much pain but still wishing to hear one last soft hoot instead of the awful screeching noise that became her last.

It was all rather normal, or at least his Uncle seemed to think so, as he bellowed for him to cook them dinner –only to gasp in wordless rage as he saw the bloodstains on his clothes.

"How dare you show up like this! In front of our Dudders nonetheless, go up and wash yourself _at once!_ " His Aunt rather seemed be under the impression that her precious son would be traumatised, although Harry knew he'd seen enough blood beating young boys and cutting up any animals they found –not to mention the shows he watched.

He looked rather bored actually.

That was what broke him, and before he could properly think about it his hand moved –dragging his magic with him, and then Dudley were choking.

It was a mess of loud noise and bellowing, Petunia crouching in front of her son and her husband bellowing at his nephews and shaking him as if it would make the magic disappear. "I lost Hedwig, you lost him. I'm just making things fair Uncle Vernon." It made sense, too –although he knew that in the before where Sirius lived it would not, it would have made him horrified.

Now it was just rather fascinating, watching his cousin loose his life –skin becoming purple that outdid his uncle in his worst state. An enormous feat that was.

Then there was hands cutting out _his_ life and that just would not do!

Blood splatter, a scream. And loud sobbing as the once pure boy stood in front of her, green eyes shining and magic making his pale knobbly hands shake. Then he cut her stomach open and her misery was gone, leaving only the pale boy at the blood that stained his flesh.

He rather liked it, it reminded him off the commercials off makeup –red lipstick. Therefore, he laughed, happy in a way he'd never thought himself capable off as he pulled out organs, staining his flesh even more and made a scarf and belt of the long rope stuff –he didn't care to remember what they were called, only laughed and waved once his beloved headmaster arrived.


	3. Chapter 3

The white place he was placed in was rather… White. And clean, and whenever one of those white clothed folks (he ignored his own patient dress) went in they usually looked at him pityingly or like he was the cause of their doom. As if asking him to become sane enough for their satisfaction so that he could properly save them all again.

He, a child at 15, or was it 16 now? He couldn't tell, no one gave him a calendar, he was supposed to save them all.

He considered his options at first, yet -what else was there to do but fall into a bleak apathy? The healers called it progress, as if finally boring him so that he was pliant was a victory.

Harry called it was it was, a distraction. Distraction from the headmaster that regularly visited, from the healers and healers which attended him, from the nightmares with Voldemort –once again active.

Apparently, his own part in bloodshed made it easier to connect to the dark lord, made sense really. The more alike their mind and soul was, the more alike their magic was –which in return made their bond easier to access.

At least in Harry's part, perhaps it was about understanding the other. He imagine that the dark lord understood teen angst and a hero complex well enough, although he hated to imagine that this was the only thing he was.

Was he still that? He found no wish to save the doomed soul of the wizardly, so perhaps minus the hero complex.

He giggled at that, making the wide-eyed healer eye him carefully (one of those whom wanted him to _save_ them.) "The dollies are becoming more careful miss!" He told her, knowing that he sounded deranged but finding himself liking the way he sounded, it would make them look less happy anyway –why should they be allowed hope when they kept him in this dreadful place?

He always sounded so rough before, too sad. He wasn't sad anymore, he was just…. Boring –a routine he just broke, by laughing. He was sure that they would report this, say that his behaviour was unexplainable as she only knew what he had told her, which was as always coded for his own amusement. The magical world was rather constricting that way, they seem to be under the impression that a mad person didn't _think._

Mad people acted mad, that was all there was too it. That made Harry happy, for that meant he didn't have to go back to being sad, as he often was when thinking. The door opened, revealing someone that would have made Harry wary before –instead he just giggled and clapped his hands. "One of the dollies are here!" He exclaimed, making the elder Malfoy frown as he realized that the rumours were indeed true.

"Mr. Potter, please explain what you mean about the 'dollies'." The Healer demanded, a frustrated frown adoring her otherwise pretty pale face. "The dollies listen to him, but he's not the puppeteer. Dollies made their own strings, the puppeteer made strings on children. Tugging them along on a merry adventure!" He informed her, not the least bit bothered by her disgust at what was once their saviour.

"Leave." His voice was cold and aloof, the usual tone for the lord Malfoy –not that Harry minded much. He didn't like the pale faced lady, he should punish her by marring her pretty face with blood and scars.

The medi-witch did as she was ordered, scuttling like a bird faced with broken wings and a car heading towards her, not used to only using her legs but needing to get away anyways.

Mr. Malfoy smiled at Harry, warmth adoring it despite its stiffness. "Harry, May I call you that?" At his nod he continued. "How are you doing in here? Do they treat you well?" Harry grinned, happy with the company and questions. "Oh yes, although I miss my toys. They took them away from me, but Dumbledore gave me a dog teddy but the teddy was bad so I had to rip out his tummy. It didn't make pretty colours like I wanted." He had enjoyed playing with the professor, making it seem like the 'badness' he was talking about was him trying to spy on him with the toy.

"I don't like only meeting the pr'ffesor though, he stole my toys." Mr. Malfoy nodded, seemingly sympathising with his plight. "You won't have to only meet the old man anymore Harry, I'll visit you from now on. Perhaps you'd like for me to bring my wife and son? And I'm sure I can smuggle in some toys." He winked, as if they were sharing a secret.

Harry liked that, in fact he found he quite liked Mr. Malfoy. "Can they be red?" He asked hopefully, receiving a small smile (smirk in reality, Lucius was quite glad about how cooperative Potter was) at the tone.

"Of course they can be, perhaps some red paint as well?" He had heard about the muggles after all, and he found it fantastic how much the boy who lived had changed.

Harry grinned, not at all as insane as they thought him –but still insane enough to find it logical to act like he was. In addition, perhaps, he wanted red paint just a _tiny_ bit. His childhood _had_ been lacking after all, and it was about time someone did something with that. "That sounds wonderful, thank you Mister Malfoy." He'd enjoy throwing it on the healer and telling her that he knew of other, more vibrant painting that could adorn her pretty pale skin.

She'd be horrified, he'd be amused. For a little while at least, just as he was amused now.

It was the beginning of a routine after that, only in the future he brought either his wife or his son –and if he was busy he'd not come with them. They tried to come together, but 'business' got in the way. Even though Harry would often times suffer visions that proved that he knew exactly what they were doing, they never mentioned it to each other.

He found peace with himself then, sometimes showing how much he truly understood. Truth was that he just _liked_ being treated like a child at times, liked being spoiled and adored. Moreover, children were easy, easier than he was in reality. So he lost himself in his own lies, and then when he had to he stepped up and showed them that he _knew._

Just like he did now, having been sitting on the floor craving attention as the 'adults' conversed over him. It was boring, and it was _rude_. "I don't know about that, Nott isn't in his favour. Especially lately, I think he'd rather give the position to Crabbe then to someone who'd go off doing his own thing. He's still rather upset about him going off killing the muggles without his permission." He told them, tactfully leaving the toys on the floor as he sat himself on his own bed.

The stares he got was hilarious, which made him grin. Not the insane childish type that he usually showed, but the crooked and amused one of a near adult. "I _do_ have a profound bond with him y'know, and I also happen to know English. And parseltongue, not that it helps much. 'Cept that time I did it with the healer, she was terrified. Quit the job and everything." It was _hilarious,_ and the mirth in his tone showed it.

"Mr Potter, I see you are… Grown up again." To tell, or not to tell. "I like attention Mr Malfoy, you weren't giving me much." He deadpanned, not the least bit ashamed as he shifted his attention to the younger Malfoy. "So hey, how's Quidditch going? I mean school is still on right? Gryffindor still beating your ass?" His tone was teasing, as if they were on casual terms –friends almost.

When they left after a lengthy discussion of Quidditch (it seemed they _were_ beating everyone still, and it was a sore subject) Harry finally broke down in giggles.

Exhausted after so long of being 'grown up' he let his mind go lax, making the teddies he had talk to each other. "So you're not a kid at all are you Mister lightning?" He made the white dragon say, twitching it as if it were nodding as it spoke. "I'm a _teen_ Mr White, there's a difference."


End file.
